


The House of the Serpent

by fourth_rose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, One Shot Collection, Slytherins Being Slytherins, written before book 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 23:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5645941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourth_rose/pseuds/fourth_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of three stand-alone gen ficlets, all focussed on one or several members (or in one case, almost-member) of Slytherin House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mark Him As His Equal

**Author's Note:**

> All of these were written before the publication of book 7, and while it doesn't really matter for the first story, the other two are AU as far as "Deathly Hallows" is concerned.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'He saw himself in you before he had ever seen you, and in marking you with that scar, he did not kill you, as he intended, but gave you powers, and a future.' (OotP, ch. 37)

For as long as he could remember, Tom had known that he was different.  
  
He had abilities no one else around him seemed to possess, and although he didn't have a name for what set him apart from the other children, he understood that it made him special. He could move things around with a thought, control animals just by looking at them and picturing what he wanted them to do, and make people hurt when they were mean to him or got in his way.  
  
The latter had been very useful when he was younger, as the smallest children in the orphanage were often bullied by the elder ones; now, at age ten, he knew that his powers could not only be used to defend himself, but also to frighten others into obeying him.  
  
Among all his abilities, he liked that one best; there was a fierce, hot rush of pride whenever another child would back down from a confrontation or hand over a prized possession just because he looked at them and willed them to do it. It was a heady feeling, this tingling in his fingertips when he summoned his powers and made others fear him.  
  
He noticed how it got easier with time, too; the more he used them, the stronger his powers seemed to become, and from the moment he first realised this, he started a rigorous training regime to discover his full potential. Lording over the other children in the orphanage was well and good, but there was bound to be much more than that once he grew up, and he wanted to be prepared.  


 

+++

  
  
Tom had realised long ago that the best way to explore his abilities was to clear his mind of all conscious thought and let it wander. It was easy enough to do in his small, bland room; he just sat on his bed, his eyes half-closed, his thoughts drifting, searching, probing for that _something_ he couldn't define, until he felt strange ideas take shape in his brain, ideas that became clearer once he focused on them. Then it was back, the tingling in his fingers that told him his body was willing to channel the power his mind was drawing from some unknown source, and he would reach out towards it and force it to do his bidding.  
  
It had been on one of these occasions that he had discovered how to find his way into the thoughts of others. It was difficult with some people, but surprisingly easy with others; some minds seemed protected by heavy walls while others were laid out for anyone who knew how to get inside.  
  
Sometimes he was content to just observe – then he would spend hours on end listening to the thoughts of the other children, the caretakers, the teachers, doing his best to uncover those things they were most eager to keep from others.  
  
At other times, he would insert his own consciousness into their minds, amusing himself by influencing their feelings or putting ideas into their heads that frightened or embarrassed them. He was often frustrated by not being able to control their thoughts outright; he was sure that it was possible, but it always seemed just outside his grasp. Tom was not one to accept defeat, and he told himself that he would just have to try harder until he finally achieved his goal one day.  
  
Deep in his heart, he knew that no one would be able to stand in his way once he did.  


 

+++

  
  
Sometimes, his mind would wander too far during those training sessions; then he got glimpses of things he couldn't fully comprehend. He read shadows of thoughts that made no sense to him, saw the faces of people he had never met in his life, listened to bits of conversations in languages he didn't speak.  
  
He still clearly remembered the day when he'd seen the face of a stranger, dark-haired, handsome and impossibly familiar, before him and had known without the slightest doubt that he was looking at his father.  
  
He didn't try to conjure the image of his mother the same way; she'd been weak and useless, condemning him to a life in this miserable place by dying within the hour after his birth and leaving him nothing but the commonest of common names. She was in the past, and the past was of no use to Tom; it was the future he was interested in.  
  
Steering his mind into that direction was difficult, more difficult than anything else he had ever attempted, but that didn't deter him. The past was dead, the present was pathetic, so where else would he turn but towards that which was still to happen? It mattered little to him that most of the images he saw remained blurry – a tall man with an auburn beard, a boy with long blond hair, a slithering shadow like a snake in the grass, the crumpled body of a girl on a tiled floor. He kept probing, searching, looking, trying to see, to learn, to understand, to control.  


 

+++

  
  
Much later, he would look back to that cold, grey November evening and recognise it as one of the defining moments of his existence, and he would convince himself that he had known right then and there. At the time, he was thinking nothing of the sort; all he knew was that he was sitting on his bed as usual, his eyes closed and his body relaxed while his mind wandered the foggy depths of things to come and tried to make out shapes among the shadows.  
  
There was no warning, no sense of foreboding; one moment, he saw nothing but the inside of his eyelids, and the next, he was looking into the face of a boy right before him. He seemed about Tom's age, black-haired, pale and skinny, with green eyes and a strange scar on his forehead. Tom felt his skin prickle, but it was an unfamiliar kind of sensation, and for a moment, he wondered what it might mean. Before he could focus on the feeling, however, it was gone.  
  
Tom couldn't remember ever having been genuinely interested in another human being, but now his curiosity was piqued. There was something about that boy, something that seemed oddly familiar, as if there was a connection between the two of them. Might he be looking at someone from his own future – a descendant, maybe?  
  
He quickly dismissed the thought. His future would be his alone; he wasn't planning to share it with offspring of any kind. No, it was much more likely that this boy might become important for him in some other way – an ally, perhaps? A follower?  
  
The idea was strange, and he pondered it for a moment. He didn't have friends – he had never had them, and never wanted them to begin with. Yet, when he thought about it, it might become necessary at some point to have people around him who supported him and carried out his wishes. Perhaps this boy would once be one of them.  
  
Tom focused, trying to get a clearer image of the boy before him. It was obvious that the other one didn't see him; he was sitting with his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, in what appeared to be a small, enclosed space – a shed of some kind? A cupboard?  
  
He reached out, trying to touch the boy's mind with his own, curious about what he was going to find. There was no resistance; the boy didn't try to keep him out, although Tom got the impression that he was aware of the presence in his mind. He was a little disappointed at that; someone who was perceptive enough to notice him should be able to erect at least some kind of barrier.  
  
He quickly sifted through the boy's consciousness without finding anything of interest. It was bleak enough; there was fear and worry, a sense of disorientation as if the boy didn't really know where he belonged, and a strange, resigned sadness that the boy had drawn around himself like a dark, ragged cloak. It was all rather pathetic, and Tom was about to pull back and move on when he noticed something below the surface of the boy's mind.  
  
With renewed curiosity, he dug a little bit deeper. There was confusion underneath the sadness, and underneath that, a cold, detached anger that seemed directed at no one in particular, but at the world at large. Now that he was on firmer ground, he noticed something else, something that was eerily familiar: an intense, almost greedy desire for something the boy had never known in his life, a wild, feral hunger that would not rest until it had been satisfied. The boy's conscious thoughts seemed to shy away from it, as if he were afraid of the darkness lurking within himself, and for a moment, Tom's lip curled in disdain.  
  
Yet, there was no denying the fact that this one had potential, if he was steered into the right direction. The part of his mind he had control over seemed weak and hesitant, but underneath, Tom sensed something much stronger, a streak of ruthless determination that almost matched his own, and for a fleeting moment, he couldn't help being impressed.  
  
This one would be worth watching.  


 

+++

  
  
He went back to the boy's mind several times over the next few months, relishing the fact that it got easier every time he tried, but there was never anything new to be discovered, and he began to wonder whether he wasn't wasting his time after all.  
  
It was late spring when he finally noticed a change. The previous times, the boy's anger had always been buried deep inside him, but now it was bubbling to the surface, as if the boy were seething with rage. Tom watched the blurry images of things that must have happened recently flitting through the boy's mind; someone had tormented him somehow, it seemed, had mocked or embarrassed him in a way that had finally made the boy's temper flare. He seemed much livelier than ever before, much less withdrawn into himself, and on a whim, Tom reached out further and dared to address him for the first time.  
  
_You hate them, don't you?_  
  
The boy didn't seem startled in the slightest; perhaps he took Tom's voice in his mind for his own thoughts. _Yes!_  
  
_They have hurt you, and now you want to hurt them back?_  
  
They boy seemed to deflate at this, his mind drawing back upon itself, and Tom felt momentarily disgusted by this pathetic display of weakness. _I can't._  
  
_Why not?_  
  
_Because… I don't know. I just can't._  
  
Tom was close to throwing up his hands in exasperation. _I know you can. It's all there in your head, I can see it!_  
  
The boy hesitated for a moment before answering. _It's not what I want, anyway. I'd rather have friends of my own than keep fighting with Dudley's gang._  
  
Friends. Tom had never understood some people's obsession with the subject, but he couldn't help feeling he was on to something here. _But if you had friends to fight for you? To back you up, and even the odds, so that you'd be sure to win? Would you like that?_  
  
There was a moment's silence, and then the boy replied, much less hesitantly than before, _Yes, I think I would._  
  
Tom smiled; that, at last, was a concept he could understand. _Then you need to learn how to make others follow you, but you can't do that by feeling sorry for yourself and being afraid of your own strength._  
  
The boy seemed strangely amused by this. _No one is ever going to follow me. They don't like me._  
  
_That doesn't matter. Power is not about being liked, it's about being obeyed._  
  
The boy shrugged. _I don't want power, I'd rather have people who care for me._  
  
Tom paused; the boy's words should have been enough to make him draw back in disgust, but there was something underneath, something the boy wasn't saying, probably wasn't even aware of. _You want people who care for you… care so much that they would do anything for you, would follow you anywhere, would overcome all odds to give you what you want?_  
  
The boy pondered this for a moment, and then replied, in a tone of quiet determination, _Yes._  
  
Tom smiled again. _How far would you be willing to go?_  
  
There was a brief silence before the boy asked, _What?_  
  
_You heard me. What would you do to get your wish?_  
  
He felt the boy tentatively reach into the depths of his mind, towards the places where his conscious thoughts usually didn't dare go. Tom left him to it; this was an answer the boy had to find within himself. Yet somehow, Tom was sure he already knew what that answer would eventually be.  
  
_Anything._  


 

+++

  
  
Tom had always been content with his own mind for company, and the fact that his thoughts kept straying back to the strange boy in the weeks that followed their conversation annoyed him somewhat. It wouldn't do to become too interested in another person, particularly not one who might not even be born yet.  
  
He couldn't shake off the feeling that the boy would become important for him at some point in the future, but there was nothing he could do about that at the moment. He had given him a shove in the right direction, had shown him from which resources he had to draw if he ever was to live up to his potential, but the rest was no longer Tom's concern, so he wouldn't seek him out again until he had use for him.  
  
For as long as he could remember, Tom had known that he was different, and he had never minded being alone as a consequence. A glimpse of himself in the soul of a boy from the future was not going to change that.  
  
Yet sometimes, Tom looked into a mirror and imagined that he saw a flash of green in his own dark eyes. Then he allowed himself to wonder for just a moment whether he was ever going to see the boy face to face, and whether that strange feeling of familiarity would still be there if he did.  
  
Part of him was almost hoping that it would be so.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
FIN

 

 


	2. True Colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After having failed to kill Dumbledore, Draco seems out of options. Yet - "any means to achieve their ends", remember?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set directly after the events of "Half Blood Prince", and written well before the publication of book 7.

The floor was cold and clammy under Draco's knees. He kept his eyes on the stone slabs, his head bowed low. It should have felt humiliating, but he was past caring; anything was better than looking into those burning red eyes again. However, no show of humble servitude could spare him the sound of the high-pitched voice.  
  
"It seems you failed to carry out your assignment, boy."  
  
"Yes, my Lord." Draco didn't even try to keep the tremor out of his voice.  
  
"Do you remember the punishment for failing your master?"  
  
Draco only managed a nod; he couldn't quite bring himself to proclaim his own death sentence. Not that it made any difference. Whether he said it out loud or not, he would die anyway.  
  
"Severus, the boy was your charge. What do you think I should do with him?"  
  
Draco gritted his teeth. Snape must have been waiting for this moment ever since he inserted himself, unbidden, into Draco's planning all those months ago, scheming and interfering and hell-bent on snatching the glory for himself under the pretence of wanting to help. _He_ didn't have to worry about the fact that only Draco's success would secure the safety of his parents; what were Lucius and Narcissa to a man like Severus Snape, who clearly couldn't wait for the long years of licking Dumbledore's boots to be over? It made Draco almost physically ill to remember how he'd once _trusted_ his Professor. God, what an idiot he had been!  
  
"I am not sure, my Lord." Snape's deep voice, coming from somewhere to his left, startled Draco out of his thoughts. "I had to step in because he hesitated at the wrong moment, but overall, he has proven quite capable during the last year. Given his youth and inexperience, finding a way to give us access to the castle was a remarkable feat. He's still a bit squeamish, but that's just the result of years of pampering and can easily be remedied with proper training. He might yet prove useful to you."  
  
The Dark Lord chuckled deep in his throat, a sound that made Draco's hair stand on end. His thoughts were racing; what was Snape playing at?  
  
"Is that so, Severus? It seems to me that you're more concerned about the use he could be to _you_. He's quite pretty, is he not?"  
  
For a moment, Draco was afraid that he was going to be sick right there at the Dark Lord's feet. He had been plagued by nightmarish visions of his eventual punishment ever since he'd watched Dumbledore die at Snape's hands, but somehow, _that_ hadn't been part of it.  
  
"Quite so, my Lord." Snape's voice was flat and devoid of any inflection; Draco was fervently glad that he couldn't see his face right now.  
  
Voldemort chuckled again. "Very well, Severus. You did me no small service tonight, after all. If you think I should keep the pup alive for the time being, I shall consider it. However, if he proves useless after all, I will hold you personally responsible."  
  
"I will make sure he doesn't, my Lord."  
  
"See that you do, Severus. On you feet, boy."  
  
Draco scrambled up from the floor, careful to keep his eyes on the stone slabs. Voldemort gave a hiss like a snake ready to strike, and Draco felt cold, bony fingers grab his chin, forcing his head up. "Look at me, you whimpering little coward. Let's see..."  
  
Draco suddenly felt as if tendrils of something dark and foul were twisting themselves around his brain. He had no other choice than to look into the Dark Lord's eyes, stone-cold and dead like a snake's, and desperately fought to regain his composure before it was too late.  
  
 _Empty your thoughts, Draco – build walls around your mind, don't let anyone in..._  
  
He remembered Aunt Bella's voice as she'd whispered these words to him, over and over, until she was satisfied that he'd learned everything she'd been able to teach him. _Empty your thoughts... He must never see your doubts, your fear, your uncertainty – must never learn that just for a split second, you were ready to accept Dumbledore's offer, back there on that tower._ The voice in his mind had changed; it was no longer Bellatrix, but his mother who was speaking to him, urging him to hide his shameful, dangerous secret, a secret that would mean certain death not just for him, but for his parents as well. _Empty your thoughts... the horror, the remorse, the revulsion, let go of it, make it disappear..._  
  
Of course, it was a hopeless endeavour; Draco was quite good at Occlumency, but his strength was no match for the most powerful Legilimens alive. He began to tremble as he looked into the pitiless red eyes and knew for certain that he would never be able to hide anything from them –  
  
 _Don't think about it. Focus, focus on something, anything safe. Remember that night on the tower, but don't think about Dumbledore. Think about something else... think about –_   
  
Potter. Draco had no idea how he'd kept the presence of mind to remember the second broom he'd seen on the platform, and to suddenly realize that it could only mean one thing. Potter had been there, probably hidden by the Invisibility Cloak which Draco had known Potter possessed ever since that incident in their third year. He'd been there to witness Draco's failure and humiliation, just as he'd always been there during the most miserable moments of Draco's life.   
  
Draco felt a surge of pure, all-consuming hatred well up inside him and reached for it like a drowning man for a lifeline. Hating Potter was second nature to him, having done it obsessively for six years – this was familiar, this was easy... _Focus, Draco, focus on him, on everything he's done to you, think of nothing else –_  
  
In his mind, Draco saw Slytherin's green and silver flags being turned into Gryffindor's red and gold, Potter's smirking face over the fluttering wings of the snitch in his hand, Potter gloating over Father's imprisonment, Potter with his wand pointed at him, Potter leaving him in a pool of his own blood on the bathroom floor, Potter, Potter, Potter...   
  
Draco held on to every image, flinging himself into the memories, and hated, hated, hated –  
  
He saw something flicker in Voldemort's red eyes, and all of a sudden, the intrusion in his mind was gone. The cold fingers let go of his chin, and Draco realized only now that he'd been gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw hurt. He couldn't bring himself to relax his posture, though; he still didn't know what the Dark Lord had seen.  
  
Voldemort's reptile-like face twisted into what must been meant to be a smile. "There is some fire in you after all, boy. I think I have found the perfect task for you to redeem yourself."  
  
Draco took a deep breath. He'd be spared, then; for the moment, at least, but it was more than he would have expected. "I – I live to serve you, my Lord."  
  
"Of course you do. Here's your task, one that should suit you well enough. I want you to kill the Potter boy for me." Before Draco could react, the Dark Lord pointed his wand at him with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Oh, and just a reminder, my boy, to keep you from failing me again – _Crucio_."  
  
  


***

  
  
  
Draco stiffened when the door of his tiny room opened to reveal Severus Snape standing on the threshold.  
  
"Professor."  
  
Snape inclined his head. "Draco. I'm glad to see you are recovered."  
  
Draco closed his eyes for a moment, careful not to think about the lingering pain that Voldemort's curse had left behind. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Snape took a step towards him; Draco involuntarily backed away, the memory of the Dark Lord's words to Snape all too clear in his mind. His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Snape's expression clouded. "Oh, for the love of – I'm not here because I have designs on your virtue, you idiot boy! I need to talk to you."  
  
"What about?" Draco hadn't intended to sound so defensive; it meant giving away another weakness.  
  
"Draco", Snape said with a strange kind of urgency, "after everything that has happened during the last days, I'd have expected you to _finally_ accept that I'm on your side."  
  
It was all Draco could do not to clench his hands into fists. How stupid did Snape really think he was? "If you truly are, you'd best leave me alone to finish my preparations. I'm supposed to leave at midnight, and I must be ready then."  
  
"Ready to go after Potter?"  
  
"You heard the Dark Lord's order just as well as I did."  
  
"And you really think you can afford to refuse my help?"  
  
Draco whirled around, his eyes blazing. "You want to help me? Like you did last time? By shoving me aside to weasel yourself back into the Dark Lord's good graces?"  
  
Snape didn't reply. His face was stony, but he kept fixing Draco with a glare that forced him to look away. "Look, _Professor_ , if you really want to help me, make sure my mother is safe while I'm gone."  
  
To Draco's surprise, Snape nodded slowly. "I'll do what I can. However, I'm fairly sure she's safe for the time being. The only thing that would endanger her would be your return to report another failure."  
  
"Or my failure to return at all," Draco added bitterly.   
  
Snape seemed to hesitate for a split second. "That's something I'm not so sure about."   
  
Draco stared at him. "What are you saying? That I should go and let Potter kill me?"  
  
Again, Snape didn't answer. The silence grew heavy as Draco stared at him, his mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts. _He wants to get rid of me, I've known it all along. – But if he wanted that, he'd have encouraged the Dark Lord to kill me instead of talking him out of it! – There's something he's not telling me, something he wants from me. Something that includes my mother –_   
  
His thoughts were finally interrupted by Snape's voice; it sounded strangely intense when he asked, "Do you really think you could kill Potter?"  
  
Draco did his best to sneer at him. "Of course I can."  
  
Snape's gaze seemed to drill holes into Draco's skull. "You weren't able to kill Dumbledore."  
  
"I didn't spend six years hating _him_ with every fibre of my being."  
  
"So you think killing Potter will be easy?"  
  
There was something in Snape's tone that gave Draco pause. "You think it won't?"  
  
 _You're not a killer, Draco._ No, not that memory right now!  
  
"I think that in dangerous times like these, Draco, one should always consider the consequences of one's actions, not just the incentives. Don't you agree?"  
  
Consequences. If Draco killed Potter, he would rid the Dark Lord of his most persistent enemy and remove the one person who could still hold Dumbledore's supporters together now that the old man was dead. With Potter gone, any further resistance would eventually crumble. The Dark Lord would triumph over his enemies, and Draco, who had handed him his victory on a silver platter...  
  
...would have served his purpose. What does one do with a tool that is no longer needed?  
  
Draco stared at his former teacher, Voldemort's right-hand man, stared as if he'd never seen him before – and felt some piece he'd been overlooking all this time fall into place, leaving him with an image that turned everything he'd believed in until now upside down.  
  
Snape gave him the tiniest of nods. "I repeat, do you really think you can kill Potter?"  
  
 _We can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine. What is more, I can send members of the Order to your mother tonight to hide her likewise. Your father is safe at the moment in Azkaban..._  
  
The man who'd made this offer to him was dead. However – there was someone else who might have heard it. Someone Draco hated with a passion, but he realized with a sinking feeling that hating Potter might be a luxury he would no longer be able to afford.  
  
Draco did not allow himself to ponder what it would mean to throw himself at Potter's mercy. A few days ago, even thinking about that kind of humiliation would have seemed impossible to bear – but a lot had happened in the meantime.   
  
The Dark Lord held the lives of Draco's parents in his hand; thus he'd made sure he could force Draco into submission for as long as he lived.   
  
As long as he lived... as long as Voldemort _knew_ him to be alive.  
  
Draco squared his shoulders. He still wasn't quite sure what Snape's role in this deadly game was, but since Snape had lowered his guard just the tiniest fraction, he was willing to risk the same. "I don't know if I really could kill Potter – but I think I can die trying."  
  
Snape exhaled deeply; it almost sounded like a relieved sigh. "I'm glad to see that you finally learned to do what is wise, not just what is easy." He held out his hand. "Good luck to you, Draco."  
  
With a cautious nod, Draco took Snape's hand. "To both of us, Professor."  
  
  
  
  
FIN


	3. Plus ça change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "To be honest, Lucius, I was admiring the irony of you and me sitting here and celebrating together. Who would have thought we'd ever find ourselves in a position to show our faces in public again?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written before the publiation of book 7, and therefore not "Deathly Hallows"-compliant.

If there was one person in the world who Severus Snape was not sure how he felt about, it was Lucius Malfoy.  
  
They'd found themselves in an uneasy alliance during their days in the Dark Lord's service. Although Lucius couldn't have known about Snape's uncertain loyalties, Snape had always had the impression that Lucius saw right through him and still let him be because he might be useful one day. He had come to hate the infamous Malfoy arrogance to the point where he wanted to strangle the pompous inbred git with his own glossy hair, but he still couldn't help grudgingly admiring the man's poise, sitting here among the guests as if he'd never been found guilty of crimes that should have earned him a life sentence in Azkaban, if not the tender mercies of a Dementor.   
  
Lucius raised a pale eyebrow as he took a sip from his wineglass. "Why the sour face, Severus? This is a party, not a funeral."  
  
Snape did his best to match the other's icy calm. "To be honest, Lucius, I was just admiring the irony of you and me sitting here and celebrating together. Who would have thought we'd ever find ourselves in a position to show our faces in public again?"  
  
Lucius' expression turned into a carefully measured grimace of distaste. "Why do you always have to be so crass? There's little use in dwelling on the past when there's a future to build, and I'd say we can both be moderately satisfied with what we have achieved since the end of the war, can we not? I've been able to clarify a few unfortunate... misunderstandings with our esteemed Ministry, and you – well, aren't you enjoying your part in educating a new generation of the wizarding world's finest?"  
  
It was moments like these that made Snape remember his Muggle upbringing, because he didn't so much want to hex the smug bastard than to slap him around the face. Behind the polite words, the message – _watch me worm my way back into the inner circle of power while you're stuck at that pathetic excuse for a school to teach Mudblood brats for the rest of your life_ – couldn't have been clearer.  
  
Still, Severus Snape hadn't survived several falls from grace without learning how _not_ to speak his mind. "Oh, I certainly do," he answered instead, "and I'm looking forward to seeing the youngest member of your family sitting in my classroom just a few years from now. He's going to be a very interesting student, I suppose – four is quite early to show first signs of magic."  
  
Lucius gave him an indulgent smile. "You flatter me, Severus, but actually, it's rather late for a Malfoy. Still, I trust you will help the boy to live up to the expectations that come with his family name, will you not?"  
  
Now it was Snape's turn to smile smugly. "Frankly, Lucius, I think I'd better make sure the boy does _not_ grow up to fulfil the expectations that come with the Malfoy name these days. I managed it once before, remember?"  
  
He got some petty satisfaction from the slight colouring of Lucius' cheeks, but the moment of triumph was over before he could savour it fully. "There's much more to being a Malfoy than you will ever be able to grasp, Severus."  
  
"Is there?" Snape scanned the room until he spotted Draco's white-blond head next to his mother's. There was a strange air of protectiveness about the way he talked to her; Narcissa had grown feeble, almost fragile these days, as if the ordeals of the past had taken away every ounce of strength she'd once possessed. Snape knew better than to be fooled by her appearance, of course. Exhausted as her body might be, there was no weakness in Narcissa Malfoy's mind and soul, and her magic was as powerful as ever. She was smiling at the little dark-haired boy in her lap, who was playing with the tiny wand he'd been given during the ceremony, safe in the knowledge that he would never be limited by the restrictions of his inborn magic that the Muggle-borns had to endure.  
  
"I'm surprised you're not bothered by a black-haired descendant of yours, Lucius. I'd have thought the Malfoys were obliged to keep breeding for translucency."  
  
Lucius shrugged. "There have been plenty of dark-haired Malfoys over time. It's our blood that sets us apart, not the colour of our hair." He took another casual sip from his wine glass. "Not that I expect _you_ to understand."  
  
Snape ignored the jibe. His eyes once more moved towards Lucius' son who had grown to appear so much like his father in his looks and demeanour that it would have been downright disturbing if Snape hadn't got to know the boy so well. The similarities ran no deeper than Draco's skin; underneath the Malfoy appearance, he was a Black to the core, as fierce and impulsive both in hate and in love as his father was distant and detached.  
  
Snape had never been a religious man, but he felt that if there was anything he would have to say for himself if there really was such a thing as a Judgement Day, it would be the fact that he'd been able to save Draco Malfoy from the fate of stumbling along in his father's footsteps and losing his soul in the process. It hadn't been difficult to convince the boy that there was no future for him at the Dark Lord's side, not after what had happened during that ill-fated night of Dumbledore's death, but it had still been a long and dangerous process that had turned the outlawed son of a Death Eater into the well-respected member of the wizarding community he was today.  
  
Snape had never begrudged Draco for having made his way back into everyone's good graces while he himself hadn't. Yes, his own name had been cleared, and Minerva McGonagall had even given him back the DADA position at Hogwarts because there simply wasn't anyone else who dared to take the job, but that was as much redemption as he was ever going to get – to be resentfully tolerated, but certainly no more than that. It seemed strangely right to him; somehow he felt it was everything he deserved.   
  
Draco Malfoy, however, had been awarded the Order of Merlin for his services during the war and was now rising through the ranks at the Ministry at surprising speed. He'd married the Parkinson girl, a choice which Snape considered very sensible – she came from a distinguished old family that had never been closely associated with Voldemort, but still upheld the standards the pure-blood elite had been proud of long before the Dark Lord's time. Their son, whose first signs of magic they were celebrating today, had been born less than a year after Voldemort's fall. They'd named him Regulus; the message could not have been clearer.  
  
"Oh, I think I understand quite well, Lucius. Congratulations, by the way – I heard your son has been promoted again at the Ministry. You must be very proud."  
  
Lucius smiled coldly. "You're too kind. Yes, it's certainly good to see our family is once more getting the recognition we deserve."  
  
There was an edge to Lucius' voice that wasn't lost on Snape. He had heard it before – it was there whenever Draco talked about his father these days, the man he had adored to the point of worship all his life... who had almost brought about his family's downfall by the choices he'd made, and who was now doing his best to rise to his old glory in the wake of Draco's achievements as if those years he'd spent in Azkaban had never happened at all.   
  
Unbidden, the image of Lucius' own father surfaced in Snape's memory – he had only met Abraxas Malfoy once, but he clearly remembered the stern, cold look that had appeared on the man's face whenever he was talking to his only heir. It was no secret that he had disapproved of his son's allegiances – he'd considered Voldemort an upstart and an unwelcome intruder into the tightly knit group of old pure-blood clans that formed the inner circle of Britain's wizarding society back then. Just a few years later, Malfoy senior was dead from an obscure children's disease when he was barely past sixty... thus freeing the way for Lucius, now head of a rich and powerful family, to lead the better part of his generation into the Dark Lord's service.  
  
Snape allowed himself a moment of marvelling at the fact that the wizarding world, which had been cast into chaos and turmoil twice in the run of just a few decades, had somehow shifted back into its previous state with such astounding ease. Already, many of the scars left by two wars were glossed over; the ruins were rebuilt, as were broken alliances and forsaken friendships.   
  
Perhaps history wasn't quite finished with repeating itself yet. Severus Snape would wait patiently to see how things turned out.  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. – The more things change, the more they stay the same. (French proverb)


End file.
